Tattered and Crumbling
by YummyFoods
Summary: When an angelification spell is cast on Dean, Team Freewill scrambles to restore his humanity. Gabriel offers them a solution, but can Sam handle the Trickster's demands? Sabriel and Destiel slash!
1. Chapter 1: Restless

**A/N:** Hello, all. This story originally started out as a Destiel fic but wound up being half Sabriel as well. Therefore, I've reposted the first couple chapters under the Sam/Gabriel pairing here so I can hopefully appeal to the other half of my audience. Fair warning: Gabriel doesn't make an appearance until Chapter Four, but once he comes in he's in the story for good. Please read and enjoy. :)

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing herewithin, sadly.

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><p><span>Chapter One: Restless<span>

Everything was fine before that hunt in Fountain Green, Illinois. If it hadn't been for that fucking demon and its spell, Dean's life would have been apple pie.

Okay, maybe that's over-exaggerating things. The Apocalypse was literally gnawing on the Winchesters' heels, God was still being a deadbeat dad, and they still had no clear plan on how to put an end to it all before it ended them. Dean was still secretly playing babysitter on Sammy, just to make sure he wasn't taking hits of demon blood. Frankly, Dean had enough on his already heaping-full plate; he didn't want to have to fuck with detoxing his little bro when there was Satan to gank. And let's not forget that Castiel was currently all but human. He was still a very valuable asset to the team, sure, but where they once had a teenage mutant ninja angel kicking ass on their side, they now just had a teenage mutant with an inkling of ninja and a smidgeon of angel.

But this new complication was piling so much onto Dean's plate that it was overflowing. Ever since that damn hunt, things had just become more difficult, more confusing, and more downright awkward. A week ago the eldest Winchester wouldn't have believed that his fucked-up life could possibly get any more fucked-up, but here it was, doing just that. Dean figured that his life had taken a one-way ticket and left the world of pretty-fuckin'-freaky-doesn't-begin-to-explain-it and had now entered the nebula of what-the-fuck-is-this-shit-and-how-the-fuck-do-I-make-it-all-stop.

And there was no return in sight.

Dean lay awake in the old motel bed, staring listlessly up at the blue ceiling. He didn't know how long he had been there, listening to his brother's quiet snores and Castiel's restless tossing and turning as he tried to get comfortable in his sleep. The poor guy had never slept before in his millennia of existence, and though his body undeniably needed that rest now that he had lost most of his Grace, he was incredibly uncomfortable and unused to lying prone and vulnerable for hours at a time.

For this reason (or so he told himself), Dean stayed up every night, watching over the other two. All his life, the responsibility of taking care of and protecting the people around him had always been on his shoulders. Though sometimes terribly painful or burdening, this was a weight that he would undoubtedly feel lost without. Dean came across as the gruffest of the Winchester brothers, but there was no question that his heart was the biggest. He would gladly die if it meant Sammy or Cas could live to see another day—Hell, he'd died once for Sam already, and even though Hell was by no means a walk in the park, he would stroll right into that great maw of fire, fear, and pain if only to save the people he loved from having to do the same.

There was also the teensy reason that ever since that hunt in Illinois a week ago, Dean had been physically incapable of falling asleep.

It freaked the hell out of him, but he dared not inform the others out of fear of sounding like a pussy. Instead, Dean Winchester did was he did best: kept his problem to himself and tried his hardest not to think about it. Of course, it was difficult _not _to think about it when he now had an extra five or six hours a night in which there was nothing to do but contemplate shit.

And let's not forget that even if he felt the desire to sleep, he probably wouldn't be able to since Cas's body was letting off some strange silver glow that illuminated the room a tad too much for Dean to be comfortable drifting off. It seemed that nobody, not even Castiel, noticed this but Dean, so he again said nothing about it. The glowing had also started after that goddamn hunt. Dean sighed and let out a small growl of frustration, confusion, and discontent and rolled onto his side.

His gaze locked with Castiel's icy blue one, and Dean was startled by how other-worldly those eyes were, how obviously super-human they were even though Cas was now almost a human. Dean forced himself to look at something else, something neutral, something that would keep him from staring at Castiel and thinking those awkward, confusing thoughts that tended to pop up in his head ever since that fucking hunt.

"Dean," Castiel said softly, though in that same low, gravelly voice that carried such an immense presence.

"Yeah, what?" Dean appeared to be fascinated by the alarm clock that declared it was seventeen minutes past four in the morning, and therefore replied to the angel in a distant tone.

"You haven't slept in days," he observed astutely. Inwardly, Dean blanched. He had thought he had put up a pretty convincing act most nights, but apparently not. Of course, trying to fool an angel wasn't exactly easy.

Dean decided to attempt to lie. "What are you talking about? I just sleep while you do."

Cas fixed him with those steady blues again, and that hard look told Dean that his celestial friend may not have been as omniscient as he used to be, but that he could still see bullshit for what it was.

The elder Winchester sighed and forced himself to look back to the alarm clock before those thoughts started coming again. "So I haven't slept in a few days. Sleepless nights are just part of the gig, y'know."

"It's more than that," Cas argued. "You've been acting differently since that hunt in Fountain Green. There's something you're not telling Sam and me."

Dean rolled his eyes and then closed them, hoping that it was a good feign of fatigue. In reality, sometimes he found that looking at Cas and his odd silver glow when they were in close proximity hurt his eyes and he had decided it best to give them a break. He could still see the glow behind his eyelids, but it was blunter and much more bearable. He said dismissively, "You're just paranoid. Go to sleep, Cas."

But Castiel remained firm. Though his eyes were shut, Dean could _feel_ the intensity of the glower the angel was wearing as he looked at Dean with mixed confusion and irritation. That was something Dean had always admired about him—his steadfastness. Castiel was a rock that could not, would not be budged by anything, whether it be his ape-shit crazy family, their ridiculous ways of thinking, or even Fate itself. When Cas set a goal, he saw it through to the end, using whatever means he needed to get there.

That was something Dean knew he would never fully be able to emulate. Sure, the Winchester was stubborn and headstrong to a fault, but deep down, in the darkest recesses of his soul, Dean was filled with nothing but self-doubt and loathing. He had crumbled in Hell and became a twisted monster, had relished the pain he brought to the poor souls that were next on his rounds. He was weak, pathetic, and deserved whatever pain and suffering he was granted during his time on Earth. Dean felt that, in a way, each injury, each pang of heartache, fear, and loneliness he received helped him atone for all the atrocities he had committed in Hell. Of course, there was nothing that could _truly_ make up for everything he had done down there, this Dean knew full and well, but he needed to try. He couldn't stand to live with himself unless he was at least attempting to rectify all his misdeeds. That was why he cherished every cut, every bruise and every broken bone he received, refusing to let Cas heal him even when he had enough mojo for it. Dean _deserved_ this and tenfold more, and he would gladly accept each wound until he was in his grave.

Dean stared down at his bare chest and at the bright red puckering flesh that marked a long and very freshly-healed gash beginning under his left ribs and ending just short of his right kidney. His guts had very nearly tumbled right out of him and onto the ground that night in fucking Fountain Green, and they would have if Cas hadn't used some of his very precious angel juice to patch him up.

"Dean," Cas said, commanding his attention with his fierce, though quiet voice. It was apparent from his irked tone that he had said something Dean hadn't heard. "Tell me what's wrong. Please. If what I did to you left any side effects, it's of great import that I know—"

"I'm fine, okay?" Dean growled, and though his words came out as a question, his tone made it quite clear that there was to be no reply. "I feel just the same as I always have. Now go to sleep, will ya? Christ." With that, he rolled over to face his brother, who was infinitely less annoying than the angel at the moment. A few minutes later, Dean could still feel Castiel's gaze burning onto his back and he said over his shoulder, "And quit staring at me. You're givin' me the creeps."

The angel's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you know that I was looking at you?"

"Say one more word and I swear to God I'll punch you, Cas." Dean had found that deflecting unwanted questions with promises of physical harm usually worked, and he was relieved to see that it had the desired effect. Castiel fell silent and he quit looking at Dean, and the Winchester heaved a sigh of relief. Once he was sure that Cas was asleep, Dean rolled onto his back once more and ran his fingers idly over the angry red scar on his belly.

For some reason, his gaze drifted over to his sleeping friend. Dean found it somewhat amusing that the angel refused pajamas and instead chose to sleep in his usual outfit of slacks, dress shirt, tie and trench coat. Perhaps all that extra bulk was what made it so hard for him to fall asleep. The soft glow Cas emitted was gentle and soothing, and Dean found himself wishing he could be closer to that warm light. The angel's features, usually so sharp and schooled, were smoothed and care-worn while he slept. This, Dean thought, was what an angel should look like—peaceful, compassionate, loving. Some of Castiel's hair was sticking up in odd places due to his restlessness, and it was rather…endearing.

Seeing the angel sleep soundly beside him made something large, warm and nameless burgeon up inside Dean, and this scared the hell out of him. What was this strange, unnatural feeling he got whenever he looked at Castiel for too long? Why was it that ever since that hunt a week ago, he found it hard to look into those blue eyes without getting that same warm happy feeling?

And what had made Dean develop the strong desire to touch the angel beside him, to feel the warmth that his silver glow gave off, to take in the sensation of his skin and hair?

Dean shook himself and ripped his eyes away from Castiel's visage. _Jesus, Dean. What the fuck is wrong with you?_

Let's get one thing straight right now. Dean was a straight man. As straight as a fucking flagpole. It was no secret that Dean loved nothing more than titties, tight asses, and a cold beer. He had nothing against gays—he just had never felt the urge to explore that other side of sexuality. He had never in all his life had even the faintest desire to cross into the foreign realm of butt-packing and bromances. Frankly, the idea of kissing a guy, let alone doing other things to one, was just weird as fuck to Dean. To him, the concept of himself getting physical with or having feelings for a guy felt about like wearing his shoes on the wrong feet—uncomfortable, unnatural, and against all common sense.

Hence, these feelings he got when he was around Cas served only to frustrate and confuse him. But he completely refused to examine them, because poking and prodding these feelings meant officially acknowledging that they existed, and officially acknowledging they existed meant a whole other world of self-doubt and questions he really, _really_ didn't want or need. As it was, Dean's sanity was holding on by a few very tattered, extremely frayed strings, and he didn't need anything else further straining their bond on his state of reality.

So instead of delving further into what these odd feelings and urges were, Dean chose to think back to that cursed night in Illinois. It was hard to believe that it had only happened six days ago—to him, it felt like a century of awkwardness and uncertainty had passed since that Thursday.

And Dean just knew that things were only going to get stranger.

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><p><strong>AN:** Let me know what you think. If you want to read more of this, head to my profile page and click on the one called Desperation.


	2. Chapter 2: Distractions Can Fix Anything

**A/N: **Fair warning: Sabriel goodness doesn't begin until Chapter Four. Thanks for reading! Head on over to my profile page to read the full story, entitled Desperation. :)

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing herewithin.

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><p><span>Chapter Two: Distractions Can Fix Anything<span>

"So check this out," Sam said as he flopped the newspaper in his hand onto the diner booth table for both Dean and Castiel to read. The front page headline read "Mysterious Mass Murder Baffles Authorities."

According to the article, three families within the small township of Fountain Green, Illinois had all been shot to death two nights ago. All were families of five with children aged twelve and younger, and that seemed to be their only common factor. But the real kicker?

They had all been shot with crudely made lead bullets, like the ones used during and prior to the Civil War. There was no sign of struggle, though everybody had been awake at the time. And their blood had been completely drained, their hearts taken.

"So…what? Do you we have a vengeful spirit on our hands? Demon?" Dean thought aloud. A demon using an antique gun to do its dirty-work made little sense, and a ghost taking its victims blood and hearts was also outlandish, but when did demons or spirits ever make any sense?

"It's likely a vengeful spirit," Cas surmised. He then studied the buttered and jellied toast in his hand, as though weighing the pros and cons of going hungry.

Dean watched the angel's silent debate and said exasperatedly, "Just eat the damn toast, Cas. It's not as bad as it looks. Like it or not, you're gonna have to start eating more."

The angel's perfectly sculpted face creased into a frown and he seemed to take a second to steel himself before taking a quick bite. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, and then looked up to the brothers. "This is…surprisingly tolerable," he admitted.

The eldest Winchester rolled his eyes, but there was a small, amused smile playing across his lips. "So, where is this Fountain Green place? How far is it from here?"

Sam was already using his phone to mapquest directions from their current location to their new destination. "Uh…it's about seven hours from here. If we leave now, we should make it to a motel by midnight."

"Great." Dean rose to his feet and tossed a few bills onto the table. "Let's hit the road."

Sam shot him a brief, shrewd look before picking up the newspaper and following his big brother's lead. Cas followed shortly after with a few pieces of toast in his hand and one between his lips, perhaps a bit too infatuated with his newly discovered cuisine to have noticed the way Dean was acting. Sure, the elder Winchester was always eager for a hunt, but over the past few months, it seemed as though he was pushing himself (and the others) to hunt ceaselessly. Sam was no dummy—he had spent much too much time with his brother not to know when something was wrong with him, and all the alarms were sounding that something was off with Dean Winchester. Of what exactly it was, his brother was unsure. He assumed it had something to do with the Apocalypse that was hanging over their shoulders though.

It was a long and boring drive through Missouri, and they all heaved a sigh of relief when they finally rolled into the town of Carthage, Illinois and checked out a room from the Prairie Winds Motel on its outskirts. It was rather late, and they wouldn't be able to do much until morning. In a community so small, nothing they did would go unnoticed so the boys had to take extra precautions not to raise any alarms. Carthage had a population of only about 2,500, and Fountain Green only had about 30 after the murders. Here, everybody would know everybody and their cousin's dog, and word that three strange, incredibly nice-looking men were suddenly in town and poking around in the string of deaths would spread like wildfire.

The motel was alright. It was lacking a kitchen and it was pretty small, but it was clean and would serve its purpose well enough. The biggest downside, however, was that there were no rooms that had three beds. Either someone was sleeping on the floor, or someone was sharing a bed. Dean was quick to throw his duffel bag onto one of the beds and thereby claim it as his own. Sam mirrored his brother with the other bed before collapsing on it, still wearing his clothes. Castiel, always patient and never in a hurry, sat down at the small table and watched the brothers. The dark circles beneath his eyes belied his perfect posture and bright eyes; Dean could tell the angel was tired, but doubted somewhat that he would sleep tonight.

Shrugging, Dean went into the bathroom to take a quick shower. He was stiff from driving for so long, and the hot water was sure to relax him. When he closed his eyes and the hot water hit his face and ran down his body, he could almost pretend that there was nothing outside of this bathroom, that there was no Apocalypse, no recovering addict brother sleeping in the room beside him, that there was nothing in this world except for cool blackness, the soothing pitter patter of the water, and the sensation it brought to him that seemed to warm and calm his very soul. Dean took solace in these few moments, as it would probably be his only reprieve from the harsh outside world until this hunt was over.

A while later, he emerged from the bathroom clad in an old AC/DC t-shirt and boxers, feeling as relaxed and refreshed as one could be, considering the end of the world was nigh.

Until he saw that his bed was no longer empty.

Cas, with all the social understandings of a paper plate, had moved Dean's territory marker from the bed and onto the ground, and had then fallen asleep spread-eagled on his stomach right in the middle of Dean's bed.

The elder Winchester had more than half a mind to announce his presence and displeasure to his sleeping, bed-thieving friend with a punch to the face.

But he resisted that strong urge. Castiel was sleeping for the first time in nearly two weeks, and Dean knew that the angel had to get at least a bit of rest to conserve what little mojo he still had left. Sleeping on the floor, however, was out the question. He had been spending too many nights falling asleep at Sammy's computer or in the Impala lately, and he _deserved_ a bed. He looked over to Sam's bed, and then to Cas. Share a bed with Sasquatch or the Holy Tax Accountant?

That was one of the easiest choices Dean had ever made. Carefully, he managed to roll Cas onto his side so half of the bed was empty. Dean crawled into the bed and got under the blankets, cringing at the realization that he was sharing a bed with a dude. He screwed his eyes shut and told himself just to forget it and fall asleep. It was only for a few hours. Gradually, his sleepy mind managed to forget that he was occupying the same bed as the angel and allowed him to drift off.

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><p>Dean awoke very slowly and reluctantly—he had been having an excellent dream in which he had met up with Natalie Portman out of freak coincidence. They had had a passionate, hot, very naughty romp before she had collapsed upon him, spent, and then rolled to his side where she put her arms around him. Dean was still feeling the bliss of the aftermath when something pulled him from this perfect unreality and shoved him into the much less desirable real world.<p>

His tired mind struggled at first to distinguish the differences between the dream and his current situation. It had been night in the dream, and now it was mid-morning. Also, Dean was still wearing his pajamas. There was also the fact that he was sporting some extreme morning wood. There was only one thing that seemed consistent, however.

There was an arm wrapped around his waist comfortably, and someone's head was resting in the crook of his shoulder, their hair tickling Dean's jaw in a pleasant way.

And Dean bet money that it wasn't Natalie Portman.

No, no. Instead of the beautiful actress, Dean was holding none other than Castiel in his arms. The angel was sound asleep against him, breathing deeply out of his slightly parted mouth. His chest rose and fell gently with his breaths, and if Dean hadn't been in a complete state of manly-pride-at-serious-risk-of-being-cuddled-into-oblivion induced panic, he maybe would have found it charming.

Instead, he did what any self-respecting homophobe would do when he woke up with an aching boner and a man wrapped around him—he rolled away from Cas so vehemently that he plummeted out of the bed and straight onto the hard floor with a resounding THUD that awoke both the other men instantly. Dean had just enough time to obscure his hard-on with a corner of the blanket that had fallen with him.

Sam sat up and looked down at him in concern. "Dude, did you just fall out of bed?" he asked incredulously.

"No, I just dropped my flashlight from the nightstand," Dean lied smoothly. Because Dean Winchester would never, ever, under any circumstances admit that he had just rolled out of bed in order to escape a possibly boner-inducing body-to-body embrace with a fucking angel of the fucking _Lord._ He had _principles,_ goddammit. Principles that clearly stated things like that were _never_ supposed to happen to him, and if by some freak chance they did, they were never to be spoken of again.

Sam must have been too tired to care, because he didn't prod any further. Instead, he stretched and popped the joints in his back and neck and walked to the bathroom, scratching his stomach and yawning. Dean decided to lay there on the ground and think of Ruby's true demonic face until his not-so-little situation went away. Luckily, Ruby's face did the trick and Dean was fine to stand up in a couple minutes.

When he did, he purposefully refused to look the angel's way, still too mortified and baffled by the whole thing. Just how long had they slept like that? Did Castiel _know_? Had he meant to do that? God knew that the angel had more problems with personal space than a fucking leech, but at least Cas had to know by now that _spooning_ a person of the same sex was totally past the off-limits sign. Right? And—Dean was pissed with himself the very instant this thought popped unbidden into his head—did Dean just have a case of morning wood brought on by Natalie Portman's incredibly capable mouth, or…?

There was no way in _Hell_ that there was any other option. He was Dean Fucking Winchester, debonair and master lady's man, among innumerous other great, important, very _manly_ things. He had slept with more girls than he could count, and he planned on continuing that long-standing tradition until the day he died because there was nothing more gratifying than sinking into a beautiful girl's slick pussy, hearing her moan his name into his ear, feeling her quiver and squeeze around his cock as she succumbed to all the waves of pleasure he had bestowed upon her. It was downright impossible that anything a guy could do, let alone Cas, the socially handicapped nerd angel-turned-almost-human, would be able to turn him on.

Completely without warning, images flashed through Dean's mind at lightning speed—images of Cas hovering over him, his unnatural blue eyes smoldering with intense, unadulterated lust, of Castiel's back arching when Dean did something especially stimulating, and of the way the angel's head rolled back while he groaned the elder Winchester's name and the black silhouette of his wings became visible when they completely spread out behind him.

And fuck it all if Dean wasn't hard again.

Because of Natalie Portman, of course. Those…extremely graphic images of his friend were totally unwanted and disgusting. Why had they even popped into his head? Because Dean Fucking Winchester entertained absolutely _zero_ thoughts about other men, let alone men he had to live with almost 24/7.

He stood up and looked down at Cas, who was still laying down. His dress shirt had come partially unbuttoned during the night, revealing the hard lines of his muscled chest. The angel's hair was tousled and sticking up in odd places, and he was fixing Dean with one of those soul-searing gazes he was infamous for—the ones that were so serious, so deep that Dean swore he could see straight into Cas's eyes and into Heaven itself.

Dean couldn't take it. Now was not the time to share soulful looks with the angel, or any other person for that matter. Dean was no chick. He ran his hands through his hair in an aggravated manner and went to his duffel bag to get dressed.

"Would it be possible to procure some toast?"

Dean couldn't help but smile as he pulled out the black suit and began his transformation into F.B.I. Agent Dean Tyler. "Yeah. I'll run by the grocery store and see what I can find."

"Thank you." Castiel sat up and rolled his shoulders. Though Dean couldn't be absolutely sure, he assumed he was stretching his wings.

"Does it bother you, to sleep on your back?" Dean asked, straightening his tie.

"I find it inconvenient to sleep in general, but…sleeping on my back is rather unpleasant due to my wings. They get stiff."

"Ah." Neither Dean nor Castiel were chatterboxes, so the conversation died and the room was silent until Sam exited the bathroom in his own F.B.I. attire.

Dean was happy to get out of the motel, even if it was just for a quick breakfast run. Anything to get away from the awkward situation brewing in that room. The grocery store was small and located next to the square. After picking out a few different items, he proceeded to the check-out lanes and to the lonely cashier not-so-stealthily texting.

She looked up to him and flashed him a brilliant smile that made him grin back. She was in her early twenties, with long dirty-blond hair that curved into perfect spirals. Her eyes were a chocolatey, welcoming brown. And she had a nice rack, to boot. Her nametag stated that her name was Daily.

"Daily, huh?" he said lightly as he sat his things slowly, deliberately on the belt. "That's an unusual name."

"I know," she laughed. Her eyes raked over his body in a subtle perusal, and her smile told Dean that she liked what she saw. "You're not from here, are you?"

Dean gave her one of his best smiles. "How could you tell?"

"Well, first off, you're wearing a suit, and I don't know if you've met any of the locals yet, but they only wear suits if they're getting married or buried. And everybody here knows me and my name, so not too many people comment on it." Here, she gave him a playful smirk, a spark in her eyes. "And I know I'd remember seeing a man _half_ as sexy as yourself."

"Well, I guess I need some work then," he said. "How would you feel about helping me learn how to blend in later?"

Daily gave him a small smile as she took the money from his hand, making sure to trace her fingers down his. "I may have time for that," she said softly. She scribbled something onto the back of his receipt and then handed to him. "Here's your change, sir. Thank you."

Dean smiled a smile so beautiful it could break glass. "Thank _you_," he said lowly, giving her a quick wink. He turned and left, groceries in one hand, the girl's phone number in the other. This was exactly what he needed—getting laid would be the answer to all of his problems. It would help him relax and focus on the hunt. Maybe he'd even be able to get some helpful information out of her too.

The boys spent the day in and around Carthage and Fountain Green, hoping to find out more information about what they were up against. They spoke to the police officers, the family members and neighbors of the victims, and examined all three houses for anything out of the ordinary. Vast quantities of ectoplasm were present in all of the homes, leaking out of the floorboards and ceiling. The boys had never seen anything like it before, even when they were working that hunt in Pennsylvania with Jo. Whoever this spirit was, it was easily the most pissed-off fucker they'd ever messed with.

After a long day of looking for anything and finding nothing, Dean was ready to ditch his brother and the angel in favor of the fairer sex. Sam was off to break into the library and courthouse for more information on the houses and families involved, and Cas was doing…whatever it was an angel did in his spare time.

He met Daily at one of the bars in town. Clad in a short, fluid grey skirt that showed a remarkable but not slutty amount of her smooth legs and a somewhat dressy magenta tanktop with some beadwork, she was seated at the bar and drinking a beer while she waited for him. Her long, perfect curls framed her face wonderfully, and Dean wondered how soft her locks were.

As if sensing him, she turned to him and an angel's smile broke out across her lips. "Hey there," she greeted.

"Hey," Dean greeted back, sitting down beside her. "Sorry I'm a bit late. Paperwork."

"It's all good. So, did you and your boys manage to find out anything?"

"Nothing incriminating, as of yet," Dean smiled. "But let's not talk about work, huh? Tell me about yourself."

It turned out that the girl was a sophomore in college, studying foreign language and history. She was home for summer break and working for some extra cash. She hated it here and was ready to leave the small, boring town for good, but she didn't really know what she wanted to do with her life yet, but that she wanted to travel the world. She was overall a very nice person, someone the eldest Winchester could see himself spending time with more than just tonight.

As the time passed, business began to pick up in the bar and it became crowded and too loud to talk. Following Daily's directions, they wound up in the Impala in a secluded patch of woods in the middle of nowhere. She and Dean both laid out on the hood on the car and watched the stars for an immeasurable amount of time, and Dean sighed happily. When was the last time he was able just to _relax_ with somebody? When was the last time he had hung out with a _normal_ person?

Forever and a day?

When their lips met for the first time, it was sheer bliss. Her soft, warm skin gave into his firm, toned body and they melted together there on the hood of that Impala. It wasn't long until they were both down to nothing, the arid summer air keeping them warm despite the chill of the car's metal. And when Dean gently positioned her so she was facing the car, her body bent against the trunk, and then sheathed himself in her incredibly tight, wet passage, he had to bite his lip to hold back a groan of unadulterated pleasure. It had been way too fuckin' long since the last time he'd been laid. He had almost forgotten how downright _awesome_ it was to be inside a hot chick, to feel her walls give tiny quivers as her voice waivered.

"Please, give it to me," she breathed.

Dean didn't need to be asked twice. It was hot, dirty, rough sex, and it was everything Dean had needed. He pounded into her, her tits bouncing against the trunk of the Impala with every thrust as she mewled and moaned her desire. She hit the point of no return with a loud moan of Dean's name and a half-lidded gaze into his eyes that was so sensual it should have been forbidden. Dean reluctantly pulled out of her clenching, quivering core and was floored when she got down on her hands and knees before him to suck him off.

He hadn't had an orgasm that good in a long, long time. Too long. He was seeing white for a few seconds while the dirty-blonde ran her tongue along his length to clean up anything she had missed. Pleasure zinged through his entire body, from the tips of his toes to his scalp. He felt boneless, and it was all he could do to kiss her languidly, an affectionate hand on her bare hip.

"I've gotta say, you certainly know how to please a woman," she said quietly, her voice still a bit rough.

"You seem to know a few tricks yourself," he grinned, feeling like an immense load had just been lifted off his shoulders.

They were getting dressed and chatting about nothing in particular when they first heard the crackle of brush and movement from the woods. Both stopped and fell silent, peering into the woods but seeing nothing, what with it being well past midnight with minimal stars to illuminate the night.

"Probably a deer or something," the girl said easily, and began to put her tank top back on.

Dean dismissed it as well. They were a few miles from the houses the ghost had attacked, and they had nothing in common with the victims, so there was almost zero chance it was that after them. And since demons and angels couldn't find the Winchesters due to the Enochian tattoos on their ribs, it was unlikely that one was dropping by for a visit.

But then the snapping sounded again, much closer, and there was the heavy clank of metal on wood as something scraped by it. Dean was swift to stand in front of the civilian, protection mode on, because the last time he checked, deer weren't made of metal.

"Dean, hand me my purse, will ya?" Daily said quietly, though calmly.

"_What?"_ There was something coming at them, and she wanted her fucking bag? Even if Dean lived to be a thousand, he would never understand the way a woman's mind worked.

"I said to hand me my bag. _Now,_ please."

He swiftly reached into the window of the Impala and fished out her bag. She quickly grabbed it and began rooting around in it, searching for something.

That was when he appeared, mere inches from Dean's face. An emaciated man in an old deep blue uniform with dirt, holes, and blood covering it stood before him. His eyes were a stark and disturbing blue that jumped out from his gaunt, pale face. A short black beard framed his face along with short raven hair. His teeth were rotten, his breath Death Itself, and the look in his eyes was nothing but pure malice. Gripped in his hand was an old Remington musket, the bayonet rusty and red with fresh, wet blood.

Dean had no gun, no salt, no iron, _nothing._ And here was the fucking ghost they were hunting, without a doubt. Why else would it show up here, in front of the man who was attempting to exterminate it? And there was that gun, surely the same one used to kill those three families.

"I want you to run," Dean said to Daily quietly as the ghost stared at him with those freakish icy eyes. "Just run and get out of here as fast as you can."

But Daily did nothing of the sort. Instead, she dropped her bag to the ground and, in a surprising show of strength, shoved Dean to the side and pointed a Luger in the ghost's face. She pulled the trigger without hesitation, and the ghost vanished the instant the round pierced his skull.

Quickly, she tucked the gun into the side of her skirt and looked to Dean with a very set, calm face. "We should leave before it comes back."

"Wait. Did you just use fucking _iron_ bullets on him?" Dean couldn't believe it. He just couldn't. Fucking. _Believe._ What he had just seen. Did this small-town college girl just blast a spirit away with an iron bullet? Like there was absolutely nothing to it?

Now her features furrowed in surprise. "Y-you know about iron?"

"You know what ghosts are weak to?"

"Well…" she looked nervous as she pawed at the ground with her flip flop. "It's just some information that's been passed down in the family…"

"You're family's hunters?" There was no way! The Winchesters knew every hunter in America, and a few in Canada and Mexico. There was no way that they wouldn't have at least been aware of a family.

"No, no," she said quickly. "My grandfather was, and from there, the information was passed down, but none of us really hunt anymore. We just make sure everything is fine here. You're a hunter though, aren't you?"

Dean nodded, and suddenly felt rather guilty for lying to her about being an F.B.I. agent. He scratched his head and gave her a rather coy smile. "Sorry about the lie. My brother and the other guy with us—we're all hunters. So…do you know what's going on? What killed those people in Fountain Green?"

Daily looked cautiously into the woods and said, "Let's talk in the car. I think it'd be best if we teamed up on this."

The elder Winchester nodded, and they sped back into Carthage and to the Prairie Winds Motel, where both Sam and Castiel were waiting for them. Sam was looking things up on the computer and perusing some papers on the table while Cas was watching a rerun of Seinfeld, his head cocked to the side in confusion. Why were people laughing in the background of this show? What was being said and done were funny? The angel knew that he had much to learn about the human perception of humor.

When Dean came in, with the young, curly-haired blonde in tow, Sam looked up to him and the girl in shock. The bitch-face reared its ugly head as he said, "Dean, what are you doing bringing her back here?"

"Can it," Dean snapped. "She's one of us, and we would've both been ganked by that ghost if she hadn't been quick enough."

Daily gave a hesitant smile to both strange men and said shyly, "Hi. I'm Daily."

Cas stood in front of her in an inhuman flash, and the girl flinched in surprise. He scrutinized her with those blue eyes, but she held firm even though he stood a mere two inches from her face.

"You're an angel, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"I heard your wings when you moved from the bed to here. And they're beautiful."

"Y-you can see his wings?" Sam spluttered.

"Well, yeah," Daily shrugged. "It's a hunter thing. You guys see them too, don't you?"

Cas's frown deepened as his gaze got even harder, if such a thing were possible. "No," the angel said slowly, still thinking. "Only a handful of humans are gifted with the Sight. Yours is hereditary, I see. How long has your family been hunting?"

"Mmm…I'm not sure. The oldest journal we have is from the Second Crusade, but there may have been others before that."

The Winchesters' mouths dropped, and Dean was pretty sure Sammy was drooling. The geek. This girl's family had been hunting since at least eight-hundred and fifty years ago—a hell a lot longer than the Winchesters had.

"I see now." Castiel was completely unfazed by this. "Your ancestors were once blessed with the blood of an angel, and some of its powers still flow through you. Interesting."

"Angel blood?" Sam asked. "How would they have gotten angel blood? And how could it have been passed down all this time?"

Cas finally backed out of the girl's personal space, though he continued to stare at her, as though mentally dissecting her as he spoke. "When human civilization began a couple millennia ago, so did that of the monsters and spirits. God let everything run its course for a few centuries, but then saw that the humans remained largely unable to kill these beasts. Before the humans' population dwindled, God sent down a few archangels to better arm the humans. The archangels selected a handful of mortals around the globe and infused them with their blood, making them much more powerful and wiser. It was then that the first true hunters were born, though it is exceedingly rare to find someone who still has some of the blood of my brothers coursing through their veins."

"Dad'll be thrilled to hear this when I tell him!" she exclaimed. "So do I have any Grace?"

"No. The blood's power has been watered down with each passing generation. You have nothing but a trace amount in your system."

Dean was both fascinated and baffled by all of this information. It seemed as though Dean naturally gravitated to anything supernatural—even his seemingly-normal one night stand women were turning out to be part fucking angel.

What was it with him and angels, anyways? He and Anna had got it on, and now he had slept with this Daily chick, who wasn't an angel but was part of an ancient hunter family and had some angel mojo running through her.

And then there was that whole awkward boner thing with Cas that had happened this mor—

Dean stopped his thoughts right then and there. He was trying to shove that memory so deep down that it would drown in his subconscious and never resurface, but thinking about it was just letting it have air and that just wasn't okay.

Anyways, what the Winchester wanted to know was whether or not his life was ever going to have any semblance of normalcy in it ever again, because every single day, it seemed like he was just taking leaps and bounds away from safe and usual and closer to padded-room insanity.

He cleared his throat to bring a halt to Daily and Cas's conversation about her ancestors. They looked to him expectantly, and he said rather gruffly, "This is awesome, and all, but we should probably find out about this whole ghost thing, first. Just throwin' that out there, though."

"Of course. Sorry for getting so distracted," Daily said quickly. She took a seat next to Sam at the table and fingered through the papers he had on the table. "Broke into the courthouse, huh? Nice." She sighed, frustrated, and ran her fingers through her curls. "The thing is that I knew all of these people. There's absolutely _nothing_ in common between them, besides their family size and that they lived in Fountain Green. The houses are all old, yes, but yet again, nothing devious went on in any one of those or on their grounds at any time. I spent this morning pouring through all the journals we have from the past one-hundred and fifty years, but there's nothing in them about this. There has never been any spirits in this area that kill this way. I'm at a total loss. But all that ectoplasm… There's something very, very wrong here. It's not a natural ghost."

"Then what kind of ghost could it be?" Sam asked, frustrated. He had been hoping that Dean's chick would have _answers_, since his searches had turned up absolute jack shit. They had effectually wasted the entire day on useless research and investigation.

"Well…here's the other strange thing," Daily said slowly. "I don't know too much about this stuff, since our family hasn't dealt with any in a couple centuries, but…there's been signs of demon activity."

All three men's eyes zeroed in on her, and she swallowed. "I take it you guys have, though. There's been crop failings, cattle death, abnormal lightning storms for the past two weeks. And I can _feel_ it, like there's something heavy in the air. I haven't seen them, though. I don't know where they are or what they're doing, but…maybe they're behind this."

"But why would a demon summon a ghost to have it do its dirty work?" Sam asked. "Why go to all that trouble?"

"It's rare, but it's not unheard of," Castiel said. "There are a few demonic rituals that involve the use of spirits, though I am not familiar with them."

"Alright, but we can assume that they're setting up station somewhere near Fountain Green, right?" Dean was in business-mode. He was ready to kill whatever demon was causing this shit and end it now. It always bothered him when children died, and nine had died in just one night. Dean wouldn't be able to forgive himself if any more died because of his inaction. "Let's hit the road. You'll be able to tell if we're getting close to a demon, right?"

Both Cas and Daily nodded, but the girl said hesitantly, "I don't know anything about hunting demons. We haven't had to in centuries."

"Don't worry. Cas will catch you up to speed while we get things ready," Sam said quickly.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Fear not, the OOC is very temporary. I just needed her to establish a couple plot items. Thanks for reading so far! Take it easy! :)


	3. Chapter 3: Not Optimal

They were on the road in a matter of minutes, Cas and Daily in the backseat while the angel gave her a crash course on demon-slaying in Enochian. The Winchesters were startled to see her nod and reply to Cas in the foreign tongue, but then again, it probably wasn't all that strange since she had angel blood in her.

And suddenly, when Dean looked in the rear-view mirror and saw Daily smile at something Cas had said in his native language, an ugly pang of jealously stabbed at his insides. Not over the fact that the angel had her grinning over something, no. It was the fact that Cas obviously got so much pleasure from speaking to her in his tongue, one that Dean knew nothing of save for a couple exorcisms he had memorized by syllables. The Winchester suddenly wanted to learn the language so he could see Cas's blue eyes light up when _he _said something witty. That this girl they had just met could make Cas so damn happy by just making small talk with him had Dean's insides roiling with envy. And what were they saying, anyways? What was so great that Cas was about to smile over it? The guy _never_ smiled.

That was when the hunter realized he was sounding terribly like an angsty, crushing high school girl and began contemplating the best way to kill Cas, who was the source of the whole damn problem, anyways. If it weren't for him, Dean wouldn't have all this weird feelings that had once been friendship but now were…something foreign and forever nameless. He would never ponder those thoughts or delve deeper into them because Dean was a goddamn _man,_ and everybody knows that men don't think about their feelings.

Team Freewill and tagalong rolled into Fountain Green when the moon was high in sky. Both Cas and Daily were sure that the demons weren't in the village itself, so Dean took the Impala down the rough gravel roads outside the town in random directions, hoping for someone's spidey senses to start going haywire.

Castiel was the first to catch the demonic auras. He directed them down a dead road, one that hadn't been used in so long that it was nothing more than a suggestive dirt path between two corn fields. The tall stalks kept the crew from seeing what lay in wait for them at the end of the road, but surprises were nothing new to the Winchesters.

They came to a stop outside a ramshackle home that had obviously been empty for decades. The small, one story house was leaning decidedly to the right, the windows were gone, and the door was hanging off one hinge. Everything was silent—the crickets were quiet, and even lightning bugs dared not fly here. Sam got out of the car, the metal of Ruby's knife catching in the moonlight.

Dean pulled up the fake trunk bottom to reveal his arsenal and with practiced speed, pulled out the items he needed. He gave Daily a large canteen of holy water and then grabbed a bit for himself before tucking a gun into his jeans.

"Cas, you look out for her, okay?" he said quietly to the angel. He was aware that she was a capable hunter, but she was suddenly his responsibility to protect for tonight, and she had never fought demons before. She had no idea how cunning those slimy bastards could be, and Dean would literally be damned if he let her come to harm.

The angel nodded, understanding in the deep cerulean eyes that stared at him. Something about the moonlight made those blues shine with an other-worldly glint, and it was hard for Dean to tear his gaze away from the other man's.

The four sneaked up to the deceptively quiet house, weapons and exorcisms at the ready, every muscle tense in their bodies. Sam was the first to enter, Dean quickly behind him, the girl sticking close behind him and Cas bringing up the rear. They were standing in the living room, and there were four other rooms in this house behind closed doors. In one of these rooms, or all of them, maybe, were demons in wait, just waiting to spill their blood.

Well, not Sammy's. But everyone else's, for sure.

The group had edged into the middle of the small living room when Cas looked up to the ceiling, and it was the only warning they had before the attack began.

The fight was messy, painful, and drenched in adrenaline, as they usually were. Ten demons in meatsuits had descended from the roof and dropped lithely onto the floor of the living room, those inky black eyes glinting maliciously. Sam was busy trying to kill one that seemed to be only keeping him busy and away from the other demons. Daily was fending off two on her own with the holy water as she recited the Enochian incantation Castiel had taught her on the way over. The angel currently had his hands full against five of the demons. They had him circled, and even though he wasn't all angel anymore, he definitely had enough mojo to take care of these small fries on his own.

Dean, meanwhile, was having a much rougher time of it than the others. The two demons he was fighting appeared to be the leaders and were at least twice as strong as the others with them. Just Dean's luck. The gun didn't do anything but make them laugh, and the holy water managed only to infuriate them. The seasoned hunter had been in enough life-and-death situations to know when he was in over his head, and knew that this time, things would probably not end well for him. All the others were occupied, and he didn't want to risk them getting killed or injured because he caught there attention by shouting for help like a little pussy.

So Dean fought the two with everything he had, all the while knowing that it wasn't enough. He collapsed in a heap against the wall, blood curving down his face from a nasty gash along his hairline and the same red elixir steadily leaking from his side. Everything was blurry from the head trauma and knife to the gut he had just received, and he was only half aware of the two demons whispering in his ear as they picked him up.

"Just a little bit of paralyzing agent on the blade, so you wouldn't squirm around. You're going to be all better in just a bit, honey," she whispered in a soothing coo.

And they were taking him into one of the other rooms of the house, closing the door and locking it, muttering spells to ward off the angel outside. Dean registered that he was lying on the floor, and he assumed that the hazy glow around him was from candles. The demons were speaking and moving hurriedly.

Was he in some sort of fucked up demonic ritual?

Dean tried to yell, to kick, to punch, but his body wouldn't listen to his frantic commands. He was rendered immobile and helpless there on the ground, completely at the mercy of these evil bastards. He could only watch as the two began speaking in harmony in a dead language, their words nearly drowned out by all the commotion in the other room.

Aw fuck. Nobody was going to find him until he had been carved up and served for dinner, judging by the sound of how things were going out there. Great. Fuckin' peachy keen.

The demon in the brunette meatsuit dipped an intricate silver blade into what appeared to a blood-filled chalice that sat on a grim black altar. She turned back to Dean, the dripping knife in hand, and smiled.

"Oh honey, you're going to thank us for this," she breathed.

Dean felt disinclined to agree.

And then she drove the blade straight into his gut and dragged it sideways, tearing open the flesh and nearly spilling all of his innards on the ground. Either the paralyzer was wearing off, or Dean was experiencing a pain that nothing could keep quiet, for he let out a tremendous scream of excruciation. The blood was everywhere, _he_ was everywhere, and Jesus fucking Christ, _why was he still alive?_ The hellhounds and torture in Hell had nothing on this sort of pain, and he wished he could just die to escape it.

The second demon was now coming towards him, continuing the incantation as he used the same knife that had just spilled Dean's blood to cut his arm open. The blood that poured forth was slightly more black than a human's, and the elder Winchester found it goddamn freakish that he could notice such a thing when his organs were half out of his body and he was fucking out of his mind with pain.

The house began to shake and quiver suddenly, and both demons stopped what they were doing and looked around warily. A great light seemed to encompass everything, and Dean hoped it was Death coming to take him away from all this hurt. The demons' screams filled the air as the white heat grew to such an intensity the hunter wished it would go away even if it were Death, and he shut his eyes to the visual onslaught.

And then there was a tumultuous cacophony of sounds and tremors and dust and body parts, and Dean drew ragged breaths as he shook there on the floor, praying to God that it was all over.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a man standing above him, breathing labored, and for a second, Dean thought it was God. The bright silver light that shone around him was warm and comforting, and the massive white wings that spread out from his back spoke of protection, of strength.

"Dean, are you alright?" Castiel demanded, those bright blue eyes of his burning holes into Dean.

Cas knelt down beside him as the eldest Winchester lay shaking like a leaf on the ground, blood leaking from his mouth. He was going to die. Dean had never been surer about anything in his life.

"Do not think that," the angel snarled, assessing the wounds. "You will be fine. I won't let you die."

But inwardly the angel cursed himself. These injuries were horrendous, and though it would usually be nothing for him to heal if his Grace were intact, he was running on empty. The demons he fought previously had seen to that.

Suddenly, Castiel knew what it felt to be mortal—bleak, powerless against the hands of Fate, and utterly full of despair. How was it that humans stumbled through their lives on Earth, weak and inadequate, unable to change the things that desperately needed it? Here was Dean Winchester, his charge, his accomplice, his _friend,_ one of the handful of humans Castiel would gladly forfeit his existence for in exchange for his well-being. The angel had given _everything_ he had to see that this Apocalypse was put to an end, and that the Winchesters would live through it. He had given his family, his Grace, his dignity, _all of it,_ and what had the point been?

Because now, Dean Winchester lay before him dying.

Castiel stroked Dean's hair in a comforting manner as Sam and Daily burst into the room, and Cas could feel the atmosphere drop a few degrees when Sam's eyes fell on his brother and the fear, worry, and anger began surging through the room.

"Jesus, Cas! Do something! Heal him!" the younger brother shouted, on his knees beside Dean.

"I don't have enough Grace to do anything," the angel said softly. "I'm sorry."

Daily said pleadingly, "Castiel, there's gotta be something you can do."

The red blood that ran down her face and arm was brighter than usual, and very faintly it seemed to glow. A sign that the blood of an angel coursed through her, though in small doses.

That was it! Swiftly, Castiel reached for the blade still red with Dean's blood and ran it across his forearm harshly. He propped Dean up and brought the blood to his lips. "Drink," he breathed, urgency making his voice rough and broken. "Drink it or you'll die, Dean."

The angel felt a warm tongue flick against his skin and the sensation made him quiver slightly. What he was doing was easily the most taboo thing he'd ever done, including when he rebelled against Heaven and killed his brothers. Giving a human the blood of an angel was one of the most blasphemous acts one could commit, but Castiel strangely didn't care about that. All he wanted was for Dean to be okay, consequences be damned.

The eldest hunter lapped at the blood weakly at first, as he had hardly the energy to move, but soon the blood began to work its magic, granting power to his body. Dean found this red fluid to be the best thing he had ever tasted, yet it was something that he couldn't fully describe. It was sweet, it was bitter, it was delicate, and almost tasted like the way warm sunshine feels on your face. Dean knew what he was doing was wrong, fucked up beyond all reason, but it tasted so goddamned good, and it was keeping him alive, and if Cas was telling him to do it, surely it couldn't be all that bad, right?

The hunter found himself sucking voraciously on the angel's self-inflicted wound, a hand on Cas's wrist to make sure that he wouldn't move the source of nourishment away. Cas meanwhile put his other hand on Dean's gut and willed his tatters of Grace to heal what it could. It wasn't much, but he managed to seal up most of the horrid gash on Dean's stomach.

It was incredible to see the transformation that took place within Dean in those next minutes—his color returned, he sat up on his own, and his green eyes were shining with a kind of energy Sammy had never seen there before; it was like something new had taken root inside his big brother, granting him the vigor he had been lacking ever since he had returned from the Pit.

Castiel, on the other hand, felt more drained and human than he had in a long, long time. He was pale, and his hands were shaking somewhat when he put a gentle palm on Dean's shoulder, signaling that it was time to stop. Dean didn't stop immediately, but instead suckled and licked the cut tenderly before pulling away, much to the angel's surprise and pleasure.

"Dean! Are you alright?" Sam flooded Dean's view, his face creased with worry, his blue eyes fraught with fear. Those eyes had already had to witness his brother's death once, and he wouldn't be able to handle it if it happened again.

His big brother hadn't felt so good, so_ alive_, since he had come back from Hell. Maybe he had never even felt this light, blissful feeling that had taken root inside him. He was sore—oh God the pain was still terrible—but it was dulled by the euphoria running through him. "Yeah," he said, his surprise showing through in the slight lilt of his baritone voice. "I'll be fine. Go grab the first aid kit, though will ya? We're gonna have to stitch me up before we leave."

Sam and Daily went off to the Impala to grab the first aid kit and reload their weapons just to be on the safe side, leaving the angel alone with the wounded Winchester. It was in the ensuing silence that Dean noticed two things: that the house had completely collapsed around them at some point while he was out of his mind in pain, and that Castiel was gasping for air like he'd just run the New York Marathon. Sweat was beading down his face, and his blue eyes looked strangely more human than they ever had before.

"Cas," Dean said slowly, "are you okay?"

He fixed his charge with a stare. "Yes. It's been awhile since I've used that much Grace and I need to rest."

"What happened to the house?"

Dean watched the angel break their gaze as he hesitated for a second. He looked down into his lap as he explained, "When I heard your scream, I…panicked. I let out a little bit more power than I meant to in my haste."

A pain twisted in his gut that had nothing to do with his wounds. Cas had used up all of his precious angel juice to save him—fuck, he had given Dean his _blood,_ and an ample amount of it. Yet again Castiel had done the unthinkable to save him, and it tore Dean up to know that this superior being was so willing to go above and beyond for him when he didn't deserve anything of the sort.

"Cas—"

"Dean," the angel cut him off with a steady stare, his breath finally even again. "You are my charge. It's my duty to protect you and ensure that you and your brother stop the Apocalypse. I'll do whatever is necessary to see it through."

"Yeah, I know that," Dean said quietly. "But the blood you gave me… You can't tell me that's not against the rules."

"There's not much that I do that follows the rules these days," Castiel sighed. He looked back to Dean, and the relief and happiness in his blue eyes were unmistakable. His tone lightened slightly as he said, "Now rest. The blood is making you feel better than you actually are."

"You're the one that should be resting," Dean argued. "You pretty much single-handedly saved everybody's asses. Again." When the angel didn't even move, let alone show any signs of agreeing, he shifted topics. "What was up with that ritual those demons had me in?"

Worry creased Castiel's brow. "I'm not sure."

Sam and Daily returned then with the first aid kit and Sam began to work on stitching up the rest of Dean's gash on his stomach. It was deep and there was no anesthetic to be found, so Dean unfortunately would have to rough it. When Sam poured the fifth of whiskey onto the wound to sterilize it, it was all his big brother could do to keep from screaming and instead clench his jaw shut. Because screaming was for girls, and Dean Winchester was going to take this like a man.

So when his little brother poured another splash over the wound just to be cautious, even Dean was surprised when his hand sought for purchase and, of its own accord, seized Castiel's firmly. Dean was too lost in pain to fully realize it, except for the fact that something warm and reassuring had ahold of him. He focused on that warmth and comfort, not its source, as the needle worked its way in and out of his flesh, pulling him back together again. Castiel looked down to the hand in surprise, but made no move to break the mortal's hold of him; he knew that Dean needed someone to rely on right now to help him through the pain, and he would do that. Sam was too busy playing doctor to notice the interaction between the two men's hands, and Daily was scoping out the rest of the house to make sure nothing evil was still lingering behind for them.

"There," Sam said after a while as he knotted the end of the fishing line-turned-stitches and cut them neatly.

"Thanks, Sammy," his brother said, and then tried to sit up. Castiel's restraining hand was on his chest in less than the blink of an eye, and it was then that he figured out what a gaping hole in his gut meant—no sitting, no walking, _nothing _until it was healed.

Dean sighed in irritation—the thought of having to be babied for at least a week drove him crazy, but there wasn't all that much he could do. Sam, the mother hen that he was, probably wouldn't let him lift a finger unaided until he was healed. And Cas would probably be just as girly about the whole thing.

The blonde reentered what had been the bedroom before Cas had leveled the house. "Coast's clear. Let's get back to the motel," she said, a smile on her face.

Castiel moved to ease the elder Winchester to his feet as gently as possible so as not to aggravate the very tender wound, and when Dean sought something to lean his weight on to stand up, it hit him that he was already holding onto something.

His and Castiel's hands were intertwined—and they had been for well over twenty minutes now. How hadn't Dean noticed? Once he was on his feet, he leapt away from Cas as if he had been burnt by his touch and instead leaned on his brother. Sam still hadn't noticed the odd interactions between him and angel, but Castiel shot Dean a look of confusion before quickly averting his gaze. Dean ignored the sorrow he felt when he lost the reassuring warmth of the angel's hand, because it just wasn't right to like holding a guy's hand—an angel's hand, or whatever—and he was feeling lost because he had all but died a few minutes ago.

The fact that he felt just a tiny bit emptier without the angel's touch had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Daily clambered into the backseat first and then Sam gingerly got Dean into the car so that he was stretched out in the back with his head in the girl's lap. The other two men got in front, and the car ride to the motel was a quiet one that took much too long for Dean's liking.

For the briefest moment as Daily ran her fingers through his hair affectionately, Dean envisioned that she was nowhere to be found and that in her stead was none other than the angel with the captivating, ethereal blue eyes.

And in that second, his heart felt a longing so fierce it seemed as though he would be torn apart by it.

It had been a week since that Thursday night, a week since Dean Winchester's life had taken a turn for the absolute worst. It was funny, but before all of that Fountain Green stuff had gone down, Dean would have said that his life couldn't have gotten any worse. He knew now that he was sorely mistaken.

He started noticing the changes two days after the fight with the demons. The first one made its appearance Saturday. Sam had taken the Impala to find some dinner while Dean was left on the bed watching Dr. Sexy. It was a very dire episode—Nurse Wendy was in a love triangle with Dr. Sexy and the new intern Zeke, but little did she know that Zeke had a rare disease that left him with only two years to live. The heartache was palpable, and Dean felt as torn as poor Nurse Wendy did. The logical choice for her was Dr. Sexy, though. Naturally—the guy's freakin' name was "Dr. Sexy." Why the hell _wouldn't_ you pick him?

He suddenly jumped when a soft rustling filled the room, reaching instinctually for the loaded pistol he had on the nightstand, assuming a demon had found their whereabouts. But a nanosecond after the quiet sound began, it ended and Castiel stood in the middle of the hotel, looking at him and the gun bemusedly.

"Did you just hear that?" Dean asked.

"Hear what?"

"I don't know, like…a rustling? Like leaves or something?"

"No." The angel fixed him with a cautious stare. "Did you hear my wings?"

"There's no way I can hear your wings, genius. I'm a mortal, remember? It must've just been on the tv." Mentally, Dean shook himself. He must've been hearing things, because there was no way he would be capable of hearing such a thing. He was just a human.

The next change was that same night as well. After Sam had dimmed the lights and gone to sleep, Dean still lay in bed for hours, just looking at the ceiling. Though he should have been worn out from the stress his body had been under for the past few days, he felt nothing but restlessness.

Dean hadn't slept since then.

Monday was when he first started noticing changes in Cas. Or well, changes in himself that made it look like Cas had changed, or whatever. When Sam had turned off all of the lights in the hotel room before he went to sleep (and Dean pretended to), Dean had at first grown perplexed when there was a strange white light coming from the corner of the room. He sat up in bed and couldn't hide the wide-eyed shock on his face when he saw that Cas was glowing like a fucking _light bulb_ with silver light. Luckily, he had managed to shut his mouth and close his eyes before the angel noticed his very obvious gawking, because that would have been supremely awkward.

As the days progressed and the elder Winchester had more time to inconspicuously study Cas and his strange glow-in-the-dark tendencies, he formed several conclusions. Firstly, the light would change depending on the angel's mood—it would get painful if he were angry or defensive, and it would grow soft and comforting if he were happy or consoling. It was kinda nifty because it was like a permanent and easily displayed mood ring for the angel, but then it was absolutely heinous because _Dean was reading an angel's emotions by the way he fucking __**glowed**__._ How much weirder could his life get, seriously?

So far these were the only differences Dean had noticed, but his stomach felt like that one time he had had some bad tacos from a sketchy Mexican restaurant, which meant that he had more problems ahead of him. Or food poisoning.

When Sam and Castiel woke up the next morning, Dean went through the motions of stretching and yawning and the usual morning routine. His babysitters had both agreed the previous night that he was finally healed and they could therefore leave Carthage to never, ever return. They would be sad to say goodbye to Daily since she was a great hunter and a genuinely nice girl, and God knows Cas had absolutely loved being able to chat with her in all those weird Angel languages, but it was well-past time to get out of there and move on to the next hunt. Castiel had heard through the angel grapevine a few days ago that there was a vampire nest in down in Alabama that was getting just a little too thirsty.

Daily stopped by their motel room to say her goodbyes as they were packing up the Impala, a heaping plate of what smelled like freshly baked sweets and a homemade apple pie in her hands. Sam was quick to take the plates from her and scope out everything while Dean carried out the last duffle bag and tossed it in the trunk.

"Hey! How are you feeling?" the girl asked, giving the elder Winchester a friendly hug.

"Brand new," he replied as she stepped back.

She was beaming at his full recovery as she stepped back from him. "I'm glad to hear it! Oh, and that pie's just for you, so tell your brother to quit drooling on it."

Dean shot a look to his younger brother, who guiltily looked up from the pie and to his brother with a defensive look.

"Were you trying to steal my pie?"

"Look, I don't see why we can't share."

"So you think it's okay to take a pie from your brother who just about died a few days ago?" Dean was playing the guilt trip card. Why? Because pie was involved, and there were few things he wouldn't do for a completely made from scratch Dutch apple pie.

He was so distracted with his teasing Sammy that he nearly missed the quieter conversation going on behind him, and it seemed to come to him more in his peripheries while he bickered.

"So how's he really doing?" Daily asked Castiel quietly.

"The stab wound is completely healed, but he's been acting differently. He hasn't slept since Saturday, and I have the suspicion that there's more he's not telling me or Sam. He gives me the strangest looks sometimes, like he's baffled by me. And he seems to be sensing my presence. He knows when I am in the same room, he knows when I'm looking at him."

"Have his hunting senses grown that strong out of experience?"

"Such a thing isn't possible for a common mortal," Cas dismissed. "Were you able to find any information within your ancestor's journals?"

"I found several that fit the bill, but they all had different purposes. I made copies of them for you." She handed him a simple red folder and he began inspecting the contents with a furrowed brow. "I hope my handwriting's okay. I've never had anything to compare my Enochian to. But Castiel, whatever that spell was, it was serious. The demons had something big in mind when they did this. You need to be careful around him until you know what they did. If they managed to complete the ritual before you saved him…you may have an abomination on your hands."

By now, Dean had successfully snatched both the pie and the plate of cookies, fudge, and homemade candies from his very upset, pouting brother and had watched the angel and the girl in shock. How could they just talk about him like he wasn't even there? About serious shit like this? He was like five feet away from them, tops. And did Daily say he could be an abomination?

"What do you mean, an abomination? And Cas, have you been _spying_ on me?" Dean growled.

All three people looked at him, mouth agape. Even the angel had a stupefied look on his usually stony mug, and Daily looked like she was just a little bit scared. Sam just looked baffled.

"Dean, how did you know what we were saying?" Castiel asked slowly, as though attempting to talk down a jumper.

That was probably the stupidest question Dean had ever heard. "Uh, because you were standing right in front of me when you were talking?"

"We're not speaking in English. And neither are you," Daily said.

"Yeah, okay," Dean said, not believing any of their gall for a second. "So tell me what we're 'speaking' in."

"Enochian," they said together.

And Dean promptly shit himself. Metaphorically, of course, because otherwise it would have just been a horrendous moment and manhood ruiner. But still, that's a spot-on description of how shocked he was. He had heard their conversation as if they had been speaking English, and he had replied as if he too were speaking in his native, and only, tongue. He knew a smattering of Spanish (tequila, hola, gracias, and Santana), and enough of Latin to piece through spells and exorcisms.

_Since when was he fucking fluent in Enochian?_

"What changes have you experienced since the night of the hunt?" Castiel demanded.

"None—"

The threat that was laced into his calm, gravelly voice was entirely unmistakable. "If you lie to me, I will hunt through your soul to find the answers."

"Jesus, fine!" If there was one thing Dean hated, it was when he was manhandled into admitting his problems by an overly nosy, obsessive angel. "I can't sleep anymore. I'm just not tired at all. I've been hearing your wings, and you glow all the goddamn time with this silver light. And it gets hotter when you're mad—like right now, you need to turn down the wattage or I'm going to go blind. Just take a breather or something. Oh, and apparently I know Enochian, for whatever reason."

And then there was the all-too-disconcerting urge Dean had suddenly developed to be near the angel, to touch him, to hear his handsome voice. But since he was still staunchly in denial of said urges, he would rather have Castiel tromp painfully through his being than admit out loud in front of his brother that he might be gay for an _angel._

"This is not optimal," Castiel muttered. He shifted his dagger-sharp stare from a pissed-off Dean Winchester to the papers in his hand.

"Is it the angel blood you gave him?" Sam asked. He knew from experience the effects blood could have on a person, and perhaps his big brother just needed to detox and he'd be fine again.

The angel shook his head as he withdrew a leaf from the folder, and in that instant he appeared wearier than the Winchesters had ever seen him.

"The blood I gave you was the final ingredient to the spell the demons were performing on you."

"What kind of spell was it?" demanded the younger Winchester.

"Demonification," Daily whispered.

Dean blanched. _Demonificaiton?_ He didn't want to say the words that came out of his mouth next, but he would never be able to live with himself if he didn't know the answer either. "You mean I'm a demon now?"

"No. Demon blood would have been required for that." Castiel looked up to him, and there was a guilt large enough to cause a tidal wave within those cerulean eyes that would swallow the poor angel up, never to be seen again. "You are making the transition from mortal to angel as we speak."

Only one thought could come to Dean Winchester's scrambled, insanity-riddled mind.

_Jesus. Fucking. Christ._


	4. Chapter 4: How Bout a Sojourn?

Dean did not suddenly sprout wings and grow a hunk of Grace. It seemed that angelification was a gradual process, which was just fine with Team Freewill—they needed all the time they could to stop and reverse this. While the Winchesters focused on taking out the vampire coven in Alabama, Castiel tried finding out more about the spell and possible ways to reverse it.

Too bad he was making absolutely zero progress.

"Cas, there's gotta be _something_ about this somewhere!" Sam exclaimed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The angel had just flown into the motel room where the younger brother sat at the table, avidly searching on his computer for answers to Dean's dilemma. Dean was out questioning the locals to find out more about their prey.

"Contrary to what you boys think, I am _not_ a fount of knowledge," growled Castiel, his lips in a thin line of displeasure. "I want to stop this as much as you do, but it's not as if I can just stroll into the libraries of Heaven and research. I therefore am traveling all around the world in search of any and all manuscripts and books that can help us. There is not much else I can do."

And Sam knew that he was telling the truth, and he felt guilty for being so hard on the angel who was obviously busting his ass, but he couldn't stand the fact that his brother was losing his humanity more and more with every passing second. Even though they were both searching whenever they could, the lack of results made it seem like they weren't trying hard enough.

"I have checked every resource I can think of on Earth, but there is no record of a mortal transforming into an angel. And because we don't know much about the spell except how to cast it, we have no idea how powerful Dean will become. He could become a cherub—" Both Castiel and Sam cringed at the thought, "—or perhaps he could even become an archangel."

_Archangel,_ Sam thought. They were some powerful bastards, completely terrifying, really. Raphael had lightning for wings in his human manifestation and just his appearance had caused the entire Eastern Seaboard to lose power. Michael was a ruthless creature that cared nothing for the Winchesters' plight or the fate of humanity. And Gabriel was the most manipulative, sneaky dick ever to walk the planet, and if Sam ever met him again he'd swipe Castiel's knife from him and promptly run the archangel through with it—

Sam was still having issues with the one hundred Tuesdays and TV Land.

But could he really be blamed? Maybe the Trickster had had good intentions when he forced Sam to live through that enraging time loop in which he had had to watch his brother die in _every_ way imaginable, regardless of what he did to prevent it, but that didn't change the fact that Sam had been very badly scarred by the whole ordeal. Nobody was supposed to watch their brother, their closest companion, die before their eyes—not even once. Sam had had to see it one hundred times in the dream, and twice in real life. Normally, that amount of pain would have driven a person to insanity.

Instead, Sam had vowed to slaughter the Trickster in the most vicious, heartless way imaginable. Which he told himself was entirely healthy.

So when Sam and his brother had caught wind of some very mysterious cases of deadly just desserts a few months ago, Sam had been completely ecstatic. It was almost a little scary that the man was downright giddy at the thought of torturing the demigod.

But he should have known that catching, torturing and killing the Trickster wasn't going to be as easy as it had played out in his fantasies. From the moment they drove by the town welcome sign, he had captured them and thrown them into his illusions. He had Dean shot, made Sam stitch him up, had Sam hit in the jewels, and then—the cherry on the fucking top—turned Sam into the Impala. That day, he had been more violated than he had ever been in entire life. How many brothers know what it feels like to have their big brother inside of them, pressing buttons and twisting things and pressing things and—

Jesus Christ, the _nightmares_ it had given Sam made him want to drink a gallon of bleach and then come back for seconds. And thirds.

So yeah, it was safe to say that Sam Winchester wanted Gabriel dead, salted, burned, and spread into the wind at a lonely crossroads, just to be thorough.

"Sam? Are you listening to me?"

The younger brother was kicked out of his churning, livid ruminations by the blue-eyed angel before him. "Sorry, what?"

"I said that there is one person who might be able to help."

Sam jumped at the idea and he perked up considerably. "Who?"

Castiel hesitated; he had sensed the mortal's caustic thoughts just now and knew that he wasn't going to like what he said next. "…Gabriel."

"What would he know about angelification?" Sam snapped, proving Castiel's assumption true.

"He is the Angel of Truth, and knows much more than I do. It would probably be wise to contact him."

The younger brother was loathe to have anything to do with the Trickster, but there was nothing he wouldn't do for Dean, and it appeared that Gabriel was their last shot at finding a cure. "Fine," he ground out. "I don't care."

Castiel gave him a nod of thanks and then vanished, presumably to gather the things they would need to summon the archangel. Sam was left sitting at the table, staring down at his hand. Seeing Gabriel and not killing him would be the most difficult thing he had ever done, but if it meant that it could save Dean's humanity, he would find a way.

While his brother and Cas were doing their own things, Dean was out and about on the search for the vampires' lair. Eight girls had been snatched from one bar within one week's time and none of them had been seen again. Nobody seemed to know anything helpful though, and after an entire day of fruitless searching, Dean plopped down in a stool at the bar and looked to the bartender beseechingly.

She turned to look at him, a ready glass in her hand. She was short, with a perfect hourglass figure and long raven hair that hung to the middle of her spine. The tight purple tank top she wore accentuated her ample curves and on a scale of hotness, she was easily a nine out of ten. But what Dean found more captivating than her rockin' body was her bright cerulean gaze. There was something so wonderfully familiar and comforting in those eyes that Dean felt as though he could sink right into her and stay there forever.

"You look like you could use a drink," she said astutely.

And apparently she was a mind reader, to boot. "That's an understatement, honey," Dean replied, forcing a tired smile onto his lips. He didn't even feel like smiling anymore. He gladly took the mug from her and knocked it back, savoring the bitter taste of temporary happiness. How had his life spiraled so out of control so fast?

Well, first there was the whole "Got dragged down to Hell in pieces by hellhounds and became a heartless monster that tortured souls and in doing so started the Apocalypse—oops" thing. That was a major setback to his life, but Dean had come to terms with it for the most part. And then there was the "I'm addicted to demon blood and maybe I kinda summoned Lucifer—my bad" thing he had going on with Sam. That was tolerable. Shit happened, and Sam had shown vast improvements since they had killed Ruby and had him detox in Bobby's panic room. Next came Cas's arrival and the, "Dean, I pulled you from Hell because God wants you to do some stuff—thanks in advance," bombshell, which was one hell of a thing to try and wrap your mind around even when you were dead sober. At first Dean had thought it would be sort of like the Blues Brothers "on a mission from God," but there were less catchy song numbers and insane high-speed chases involving the entirety of the Chicago police force, and more bat shit crazy dickhead angels giving shitty orders and near-death encounters with demons. Overall, it was abysmally disappointing.

And then the real kicker, "Oh yeah—I kinda forgot to mention this, but since you guys are always screwing around in supernatural shit and you both fit the bill spot on, Michael and Lucifer are gonna take over your bodies and duke it out—winner take all, all being the world," came out to play. That was like a ray of sunshine in Dean's life. So from then until now their lives had consisted of trying to find a way out of letting these crazy fuckers in their bodies to destroy humanity. Cas had even gone AWOL and began fighting with them at the cost of losing his Grace. Dean didn't really understand why; it's not like _he_ was going to be able to stop the damn Apocalypse. He would never understand why the angel so easily believed completely in him.

Dean had seriously been under the impression that there was no possible way for their situation to get any worse, but that idea was shot to hell when he went to fucking Fountain Green a week ago and those demons there had sprung "Oh hey there, we're just gonna put you under this spell and then _fuck your life up five ways from motherfucking __**Sunday**_by botching said spell and making you turn into a goddamned _angel—_hope you don't mind or anything," on him. And this had changed everything.

Now there was no way that Michael could use him as a vessel because he wasn't entirely human anymore. This was a definite plus for Team Freewill, but it was about the only positive thing about the whole situation. Sure, becoming a celestial being would _seem_ awesome, but Dean liked being human. He liked getting drunk, he liked sleeping with women, he _loved_ greasy bacon cheeseburgers and pie, and he sometimes _needed_ the rush he got during hunts when he realized that he was mortal and that there was always a very real chance that he would die tomorrow. The elder Winchester wasn't ready to forfeit his weak human existence by any means.

The whole not sleeping thing he had now was as annoying as it was nice. It was great never to feel fatigued, but it was horrible to sit around and wait for Sam and sometimes Castiel to wake up. He usually had nothing to do but sit and think, and Dean had never been the kind to ruminate over things like a ninny. Knowing Enochian was about as cool as it was unsettling. It was convenient when he didn't want others to hear what he was saying, but it was completely freaky to know that he suddenly _knew_ a language. Cas told him it was because he was subconsciously listening in on Angel Radio, and that sooner or later he would actually be able to hear all the angels talking. Friggin' awesome. Voices of dickheads in his head forever. Dean just couldn't wait.

He had gotten better at reading Castiel's glow too—he could now notice its subtle nuances and distinguish more detailed emotions. He had been spending a great deal of time with the angel since Fountain Green, because what else was he going to do with all of his time awake? Dean found that he deeply enjoyed being around Cas. They had spent several nights sitting outside their motel room just talking in Enochian about anything and everything; it turned out that Cas was a bit more of a chatterbox when he was in his native tongue, and he was even funny sometimes. Castiel told him about what it was like in Heaven, what his jobs had been there, his favorite brothers, and his least favorite. The elder Winchester secretly loved those nights and looked forward to them because these conversations seemed to fill a void within him he had never been aware of before now. When he talked with Cas, sitting near that warm, content glow he seemed to have only when it was just the two of them, Dean felt something big and satisfied well up within him. That pleasant something remained nameless and unstudied, however, because…well, Dean just didn't want to think about its implications in the slightest.

All in all, Dean had been taking the whole turning into an angel thing pretty well. There had been a definite spike in his alcohol intake, but he was still the same old Dean Winchester. For now, anyways. The way Dean saw it was that if he were going to have to change into something inhuman, an angel was probably the best option. Almost any other outcome involved needing to eat people, and he had never really fancied human flesh or blood all that much. And there were definite perks that would come with angelification—he would be able to fly at supersonic crazy speeds (though Dean had already firmly decided that they would still drive everywhere in the Impala, because he would _never_ desert his baby), he could zap demons with his mojo to kill them (much more convenient than long incantations in dead languages), and he'd be a general badass.

But Dean Winchester was already a badass, so there wasn't much change there.

He had just polished off his sixth beer and was really making headway with Cassie the bartender when Castiel chimed into his thoughts, the surprise making him grip his beer tighter for just a second.

"_Dean, I need you to return to the motel as quickly as possible,"_ the angel rumbled in his native language.

"_Is it important? I'm kinda busy right now."_ Busy undressing Cassie with his eyes. Oh, yeah!

"_All you're doing is imbibing malt beverages and looking lustfully at a young woman,"_ Castiel dismissed, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

"_Yeah. That makes me busy. What do you want?"_

"_Sam and I may have found someone who knows how to cease your angelification. We are prepared to summon him and are waiting for you, but if you are as _'busy'_ as you say, I shall leave you to your business."_

Okay, so maybe Dean wasn't _that_ busy. Though he truly did regret tearing his eyes away from those brilliant blue orbs of hers. What was it about them that had him so enthralled? He was still puzzling over the enigma as he gave her a generous twenty dollar tip and a seductive smirk. He picked up the napkin with her phone number on it and headed for the Impala. As he drove back to the motel, he wondered what Cas's problem was. He had seemed distinctly upset when noticing that Dean was hitting on that bartender. Maybe he and the angel had grown a bit closer since Fountain Green, but that didn't mean that Cas could get pissed if he were talking a girl. He and the angel had gotten closer in a platonic, totally not-gay way over the past few days. There was no blossoming bromance between them, even if they maybe held hands that night when Sammy stitched him up. And that one time a few nights ago they had sat up on the roof a motel and just talked with each other all night, laughing and grinning and slowly edging closer so that they were shoulder-to-shoulder, until then the sun was coming up and it was time to start the day—that meant absolutely nothing.

Right?

The Winchester had chalked Cas's sudden upset up to anxiety over the impending end of the world by the time he parked the car in the motel's parking lot. He was already undoing his tie when he came into the motel; Dean hated the F.B.I. suits his brother said that they absolutely "needed" for their hunts, and he was under the impression that Sammy secretly loved to play dress-up and that was the only reason he forced his big brother to wear such ridiculous getups. Castiel and Sam were at the table, one serious looking spell cooked up on its top.

Sam nodded to his brother in greeting, and Dean didn't miss the way Castiel was careful to take absolutely no notice of his entrance. The angel looked like he'd just taken a roll in the nearest puddle of radioactive goo—the guy was _pulsing_ with hot silver light and Dean had to look away from it after only a few seconds. Castiel was definitely not happy about something, and the elder Winchester had a feeling that that "something" was none other than himself.

"Who are we summoning?" Dean asked as he changed into his usual wardrobe, desperate to break the silent tension that only he could feel, what with his whole new mojo thing.

Sam was the first to reply, and his voice was bitter as he said curtly, "Gabriel."

"The Trickster? What would he be able to do?"

Castiel found himself unable to look away from the not-so-mortal mortal as he unbuttoned and then removed the white dress shirt he had been wearing all day. As he watched the man move with a lithe, subtle grace to pick up a black t-shirt and watched his muscles ripple underneath his sun-kissed skin, Castiel was simply amazed at how a person who could be so far from perfect could be entirely flawless all at the same time. What was the phrase he had heard one of the brothers say before? A diamond in the rough? It seemed a fitting way to describe the man before him, who on the outside was nothing but gruff, stern, and overall sinful, but who on the inside had nothing but a heart of pure gold and who secretly was just as compassionate as any good angel of the Lord.

"Cas? Hello? Why are we summoning that bastard?" Dean asked.

Apparently, the angel had been more intent on Dean than he had thought. "I believe he might know something. We've exhausted every other resource and he is our last option."

The elder brother nodded in understanding. He was fully dressed now, and Castiel felt a little sad over it. He was getting more and more emotional as his Grace slowly faded, and it was incredibly unnerving and alien. He disliked it very much because he was usually at a loss as to what he should do when these strange urges overtook him. When he saw that Dean was conversing with that bartender, something had grown heavy and hot inside him, and it was not at all pleasant. He had the sudden urge to smite this innocent, although promiscuous woman, and that had scared him. He was a good angel, and in all the centuries of his existence Castiel had never wanted to kill the innocent. Why was it that ever since Fountain Green he had felt so…possessive when it came to Dean? Perhaps part of it was the guilt he felt for bringing this terrible fate upon the poor man. If he had just had more Grace, healing Dean would have been a simple trick and he would still be completely human. If he had but known about the spell, maybe he could have found another way to save him that didn't involve his blood.

Or perhaps Castiel was feeling territorial over the elder Winchester as of late because of the extra time they'd been passing together? Since they had made the realization of Dean's transformation, Castiel had been roaming every corner of the world, perusing every single nook and cranny in search of _anything_ that could help stop the terrible spell. From sunup to sundown he flew and searched, but at nightfall he would return to wherever the boys were staying and there, he and Dean would talk long into the night while his little brother slumbered. Castiel found these nights peaceful, enjoyable, and some of the best times he had ever had in his extremely lengthy existence. He had never really bonded with any being before, besides when he fought beside his siblings in conflict, but that was an entirely different thing than what he shared with Dean. It seemed that each night they talked, they managed to get closer and closer to each other, until one day there would no longer be any secrets or distance between them.

Castiel silently prayed that that day would come very soon.

But now was not the time to muse on such subjects. There were more important matters to attend to.

Sam took the vase of holy oil and poured it in a wide circle on an open spot of the motel floor and then stepped back, drawing a lighter out of his pocket. Sam gave Castiel a nod, and with that, the angel began the intricate incantation that would summon the archangel to them. He dropped the twig of gum myrrh into the small pyre and green flames shot up. All three men looked to the center of the room expectantly, and then very quickly all looked away in shock and horror.

There was a faint pop that announced the appearance of their target, and there he was, a couple beads of sweat curving down his cheek, his golden hair a slightly darker hue as though he had just gotten out of the shower. He was on his hands and knees on the ground, his olive eyes wide in surprise.

Apparently, nobody had expected the Trickster to materialize before them wearing absolutely nothing, and in the middle of a very intimate act, the Trickster especially.

"Aw, c'mon guys! I put a tie on the door knob and everything!" Gabriel exclaimed.

"Jesus!" Dean muttered, not only looking away from the sight but also covering his eyes just to be thorough.

Sam, who had been stunned at first, snapped back to attention at the sound of his brother's voice and dropped the lit lighter onto the oil, and a ring of holy fire formed around the archangel in the blink of an eye.

Gabriel looked up at him then, and molten honey met sharp hazel. The angel's eyes were still tinged with lust, but there was something else in his gaze that Sam couldn't quite place straightaway, something that sent an overly pleasurable shiver from his toes to his scalp. For posing as a janitor, the Trickster was incredibly well-built. From his pronounced pecs to perfectly round ass, the archangel was a picture of perfection. And to say he was well-endowed would be an understatement—

Was Sam checking Gabriel out? No. _God,_ no. It was just a quick, very thorough glance. Definitely nothing more.

The angel rose to his feet and with a snap of his fingers, he was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and a simple dark green jacket, a Snickers bar in hand.

"First you interrupt my private time with Veronica, and then you shove me in a ring of holy fire? I've gotta say, you know how to welcome a guy," he said, a calculated smile on his face. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Gabriel," Castiel said by way of greeting. There was an unmistakable reverence in his voice as he spoke to the archangel—even though he had deserted his post centuries ago, he was still a very powerful and very respected angel.

"Cassie, how's it goin'? I see you're turning more and more human every day. Shame." The angel turned his gaze now to Sam, who visibly tensed. "And Sammy boy, how've you been? You're looking better now that you're off those demon blood cocktails you insisted on." Before Sam could shoot him a vicious retort, Gabriel looked away from him and to Dean, who was still staring at the wall with his eyes covered firmly. The angel cocked his head in confusion. "I'm wearing clothes, now. You can look."

"You are way too bright," Dean growled. "You're like a fucking bolt of lightning."

For once, the grinning façade fell from the Trickster's face and was replaced with high-browed surprise. Since when could any mortal see his aura? With a touch of concentration, he minimized his aura so that it was about as dull as Castiel's and Dean relaxed.

"_That_ would be why we summoned you," Sam said dully. "My brother is becoming one of your brothers."

"Run that by me again?"

So Team Freewill brought Gabriel up to speed on Dean's predicament. Needless to say, the archangel was completely blown away by the whole thing. Throughout his entire existence, no human had ever been turned into an angel. And that Castiel was so willing to forfeit his blood to save the Winchester's life showed how deeply he cared for Dean in a way that the humans wouldn't understand. Giving angelic blood to mortals was strictly forbidden unless the order came from God Himself; it defied the natural order of things to give the mortals something so powerful. Even if the Apocalypse ended, Castiel would never be allowed back into Heaven after committing such an atrocity. He would just be hunted for eternity and put to death if captured. The fact that because of Castiel's blood Dean was now losing his humanity and was no longer a suitable vessel for Michael would also catch him Hell. Gabriel never really saw the big deal about giving blood to the humans who deserved it, but the rest of Upper Management was a bunch of stuffy traditionalists.

"So, that is what transpired," Castiel summed up. "I have searched the world looking for a way to reverse or cease the transformation but have been unsuccessful. Is there anything you can do to help?"

The archangel rose to his feet from his cross-legged position in the ring of fire, his arms crossed as he scoured his memories for anything that would be useful to the Winchesters. Despite this, he still asked, "What makes you boys think I'm willing to help you?"

"We know you want the world to end and whatever," Dean said curtly, "but that can't happen unless Michael has a vessel. So if you even want there to be a chance of your brothers fighting it out, we've got to get me back to normal."

Inwardly, Gabriel conceded that he had made a fair point. He motioned for the big brother to come closer, and Dean did so with caution but had to stop at the flames. The archangel looked pointedly at Castiel and the angel put the flames out. He knew that the Trickster's curious nature would no longer allow him to leave until he also had gotten to the bottom of Dean's unfortunate curse.

"Lay down on the bed, Deano," the boy-faced Trickster said. "You're not going to like this too much."

"Whoa, whoa! Just what are you going to do to me?" Dean demanded.

Gabe sighed dramatically. "I just don't see why you guys can't trust me. It's not like I've done anything _too_ terrible to you. If you really must know, I'm going to shove my fist into your soul and look around to see how much of it has changed. I hear it's pretty painful."

Dean shot Castiel a questioning glance. While Gabriel's toned down aura seemed to exude no mischievousness or malice, the Winchester had no idea whether or not it was possible to cloak one's real emotions, but if anybody could or would, it would definitely be the archangel before them. Dean trusted Castiel's opinion of Gabriel, trusted his opinion on everything, really. The angel sensed this, and gave the man a reassuring nod of his head, and that was all Dean needed to set himself to ease about the whole thing.

"Gabriel, if you hurt him in any way—"

"Chillax, Sammy," the archangel cut in gently. The worry, rage, hate and wispy shadows of mistrust that surrounded the younger mortal in a heady miasma were threatening to knock the angel's mojo off-kilter. Nobody pulled off angst like a Winchester. The fact that Sam held so much unbridled contempt for Gabriel hurt the angel somewhere deep and dark, like the sting of a wasp. He had done a lot of pretty terrible things to that human and his big brother, but didn't they realize by now that it had all been for _their_ benefit? Maybe it hadn't really seemed like it to them at the time, but it's not as if they were stupid—they were actually some of the smartest mortals Gabriel had ever met—and the archangel had been under the impression that sooner or later, they would come to their senses and see that he was just looking out for them, in his own messed up, sadistic way. No, instead they both looked at him like he was some kind of two-timing lowlife they wouldn't trust farther than they could throw, and not like the badass, super powerful and awesome archangel that he was.

Didn't Sam know that all the games he had played with them were for him especially?

A little bit of that unacknowledged anguish leaked through Gabriel's voice as he said quietly to the younger Winchester, "This will cause him pain, but this is the best way for me to find out how much he's changed."

Sam let out a long, slow exhale through his clenched jaw, but did nothing else to object.

Taking this as the all-clear, Gabe leaned over the elder brother and unceremoniously thrust his hand into the man's chest. It sank in as smoothly as butter, but the way Dean clenched his fists and a barely concealed scream tore through his locked jaw stated otherwise.

"Shh," the archangel muttered distractedly. "You're taking this much better than I thought you would."

Fishing through souls was a lot like blindly trying to stab someone while submerged in total darkness—Gabriel didn't know if he'd hit the right spot until he sunk his hand into it, and it definitely was doing Dean a hella lot more harm than it was him. The archangel had always hated reaching into creatures like this, but not because of the pain it caused the other. It was actually because his senses and Grace were so barraged with the creature's essence that it was a sensory overload. Every moment of Dean's life since birth played through the Trickster's head simultaneously and the angel felt all of the Winchester's accompanying emotions as his life played at warp speed behind Gabriel's olive eyes. He felt like he had just been thrown into a tempest of sorrow, regret, frustration, pain, self-loathing and rage, and it took a considerable amount of willpower to keep his Grace from coming out to soothe the bitter wounds of the Winchester's being just so the poor angel wouldn't feel so fucking overwhelmed by it all.

As stated before, nobody pulled off angst like a Winchester.

Describing a soul is never an easy task, since there is really _nothing_ like a soul, but if Gabriel had to, he would say that souls were like soup, and the variety depended on the type of creature. Animals generally felt like stew—they weren't incredibly thick because they weren't all that complicated, but they had chunks of potato-like emotion and carrot-like instincts along with meaty morsels of vague memories.

Humans, on the other hand, were more closely like a thick, intense bowl of clam chowder straight from the shores of Maine. Their souls were so rife with baggage that you almost needed a knife to cut through it all, and their beings were littered with hunks of garbled up, clammy emotions, with massive bits of potato-ish feelings, and the whole thing was seasoned with the pepper and salt of their memories. It was horrible. Gabriel hated clam chowder.

Egg drop soup was what most closely resembled an angel's soul, Gabriel supposed. Since an angel had limited emotions, their souls were fluid and light, like simple broth. The memories and emotions of the angel constituted the tofu and bits of green onions. But what really made egg drop soup _egg drop soup,_ and what consequently really made an angel _an angel,_ was that bit of egg yolk that the chef so carefully drizzled over the delicate broth in the final seconds of cooking, that Grace that truly distinguished an angel from every other being in existence. You couldn't have egg drop soup without the egg, and you certainly couldn't have an angel without its Grace.

So when Gabriel's fingers suddenly left chunky, boggy chowder and began traipsing through smooth liquid egg drop, he nearly gasped at the stark contrast. Apparently, there was no mixing of soups allowed in this establishment. Here, the raucous memories and emotions barreled to an abrupt stop that was nearly as jarring as when they had been playing full speed in Gabriel's head, but the reprieve from it all was a welcome blessing. There was more chowder than there was soup, which was a good thing, but it was easy to feel that there was a lot more soup than anyone wanted there. The chef had just begun to drizzle the egg yolk in slo-mo and there was an undeniable trace of Grace steadily growing and taking root within the Winchester.

Having found what he needed, Gabriel carefully withdrew his hand and Grace from Dean's body and the mortal's entire body slumped into the sheets and his screams died down to gasps for air.

"Forget the Apocalypse—you guys have enough angst in you to start a black hole," the archangel sighed.

Sam gave him a look that clearly said, "Now is not the time for your stupid remarks; just tell us what the hell is going on before I douse you in holy fire." Castiel held a similar look. And poor Dean was too shaken to do anything but shiver on the bed like a PTSD patient.

The Trickster ran a hand through his shaggy brown locks and couldn't help the sad chuckle that escaped his lips. "You're not going to like anything I have to say."

"Say it anyway," Castiel growled.

"Whoa, calm down there, bro. Just trying to prep you guys so you don't torch me with holy fire when I get it all out." His voice turned from jokingly palliative to quiet and serious. "Deano here is definitely climbin' the Stairway to Heaven as we speak. His soul is still about sixty percent human, which is good news for you. The bad part is that his soul is forty percent angel. And he's growing what's probably going to be an impressive amount of Grace once the transformation is complete."

"'Once it's complete?'" hissed Sam in outrage. "Are you saying there's nothing you can do? That you're just going to let him keep changing?"

The olive-eyed man shot the younger brother a cold stare, and a slight shiver passed through Sam as he realized that this was an _archangel_ he was talking to. Sometimes the whole short, cute Average Joe disguise he wore detracted from the fact that he could smite an entire fifty mile radius with a simple snap of his nimble fingers.

_Cute?_ Did Sam Winchester really just use the word "cute" as a way to describe the Trickster?

No. No he most certainly did not. Because that would be awkward and…definitely not true. Yeah.

Seeing that the feisty mammoth-sized Winchester had remembered exactly how ridiculous it was for him to snap at him, Gabriel continued calmly, "You aren't left with many options. I would say let's just take a hacksaw to that angel part of his soul, y'know, amputate and all, but I'm assuming you guys would like Dean better if you didn't have to hold a drool cup to his lips the rest of his life, even if that means he has to sprout feathers.

"The next option is pretty damn easy—just let him become an angel. I mean, what's not to like?" Gabriel spread his arms out emphatically, but Sam just rolled his eyes. "Really, it's not that bad of an outcome, when you think about it. Your beloved big bro is gonna be super strong, super hard to kill, and he's guaranteed to have the upper hand in just about every brawl you chuckleheads wind up in. And he'll be great at parties."

The three vicious glares he received from the men in the room were a resounding "THAT'S NOT AN OPTION." So Gabriel sighed. "Okay, and…there's one other option. Maybe. But it's gonna be practically impossible and I'm not even positive it'll work."

"What is it?" Dean rasped from the bed, his face still red from the pain and exertion he had just gone through.

"Are you boys familiar with a poet that went by the name of Dante?"

"Dante Alighieri? Of course. He wrote _The Divine Comedy_," Sam said quickly, "but what does that have to do with anything?"

"You know that demon, Malacoda, that he bumps into in the Eighth Circle?"

"The demon in charge of the Eighth Circle, the only embodiment of Truth to be found within existence. He punishes those who have committed fraud," Castiel murmured. "Why is this of import?"

Gabriel smiled a knowing smirk. "Well, Cassie, as the embodiment of Truth that he is, I have heard that a bit of his tail when eaten will revert the eater into their true, original selves."

"So let's get some tail!" Dean said, grinning at his brilliant choice of words. Really, if he had known that all he had to do was eat a bit of some demon's gnarly tail to get rid of this whole angelification thing, he wouldn't have broken a sweat over it once. He was already feeling better about the whole deal. Normally, he would have held a much more cynical view on what Gabriel was proposing, but his mind was probably still addled by the thorough scrambling Gabriel had just done to it. He was sure the doubt and skepticism for this idea would kick in sometime soon.

Sam shot his brother one of those patented faces that spoke his disdain at his Dean's ability to crack bad jokes at worse times. "But this Malacoda, he's still in Hell, right? Truth can't really just ditch his post."

"Righto. That college education has really paid off, Sammy boy. That bad boy is probably drowning politicians in tar as we speak."

"So…how do you propose we go about procuring this tail?" Castiel asked his big brother.

The archangel looked to Sam, a dancing light in his eyes as a smile twisted his lips. He knew he would probably regret what he was going to say next, but after all the shit he had put these two boys through, and in light of the fact that the show that was the Apocalypse couldn't go on without Dean as its star, Gabriel felt he had little choice.

"Sam, how about you and me take a little sojourn to Hell to visit Malacoda?"


End file.
